


sirens on the way

by 2seater



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Anisocoria, Barista Peter Parker, Boxer Wade Wilson, Boys Kissing, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Peter Parker is a Little Shit, Sexual Assault, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-18
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-10-12 02:02:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17458490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2seater/pseuds/2seater
Summary: wade wilson wasn’t outright rude, per se, just slightly behind on coffee house etiquette.





	1. yo adrian!

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone ! i got a little bored of the other fic i have up right now (it’s super cool, you should go check it out) and decided to start up this one. i actually have somewhat of a plan for this piece as opposed to “all the young dudes”, so im hoping i don’t lose patience/motivation for it !! 
> 
> this somewhat stemmed from binge watching the entire rocky series, and playing the new spider-man ps4 game, which is surprisingly chock-full of rocky references, and also super cool. 
> 
> anyways,, enjoy !! kinda edgy, sorry in advance.

   Peter's memories of his high school career are vague and, for the most part, trivial to the young man's current life; It's not that he didn't like high-school, but rather, got through it, eager to move on to bigger and better things.However,the spring of Peter's sophomore year was an era that the then teen couldn't seem to shake from his memory. As Peter remembers it, Flash Thompson, a constant tormentor of the young boy- and later, a co-worker and close friend- would confront the wiry teen in the hallway,surrounded by the group of goons he called his friends. The jock often humiliated Peter for no reason other than the idea that he could, but this time around, Flash had some kind of purpose to his constant teasing, concerning that of the popular and pretty, Liz Allan.

 

  Peter, at the time, was in the throes of teenage love, and the boy's bully was not only crushing hard on the same girl as Peter but soon found out that Liz Allan had given "Puny Parker" a quick, innocent kiss to the cheek, bringing the pair to Peter's locker. Looking back on it, Peter now realizes how frivolous the whole dispute had been, because it was barely a kiss, friendly if anything, but high school seemed to blow even the pettiest of rows way out of proportion. 

 

  As the story goes, Flash was far from pleased about Peter's "enamored" encounter with Liz, and in a fit of passion, had thrown a punch at Parker.  Though small and lanky, Peter had excellent reflexes and managed to avoid a broken nose, but could not dodge Flash altogether, the bully's fist instead striking his right eye. It caught the boy at a seemingly odd angle, however, landing Peter in the hospital for a grueling three months, chock-full with numerous and expensive surgeries, reluctantly paid in part by the Thompson family. The doctor's figured that Flash's fingernail must've scratched Parker's eyeball, managing to paralyze the muscles that contract the iris. After a slew of failed corrective surgeries, Peter was left with a permanently dilated-pupil and horrible depth-perception in his right eye. 

 

  At first, Peter was pissed, I mean, who wouldn't be? Flash had not only fucked up his vision but gave the scrawny teen the permanent appearance of a "spaced-out junkie." Later on in life, Peter would end up thanking his former bully, his mix-matched eyes proving popular amongst the ladies (and some men), one eye a charming, blue color and the other a moody green. Gwen Stacy had coined them as "iconic" and said that they gave Peter "a hypnotic allure"; the woman was always one with words. Mary Jane had simply told Peter they were "hot" before sticking her tongue down his throat, and Liz Allan gave the teen a proper kiss after he returned from his months-long hospice. 

 

  Ten years later, and Peter was still receiving compliments on his eyes, most half-hearted trivialities coming from customers and university classmates, but he'd take it. After high school, Peter would follow in his aunt's footsteps and pursue nursing, but like most things, schooling was expensive, forcing the student to work two jobs at once. He spent most of his nights at a little artisan coffee shop in the East Village, working alongside Flash Thompson and wicked owner, Skip Westcott, and his days as an on-call medic for any athlete willing to hire. Of course, it wasn't all that easy, as athletes could be stubborn and stuck-up, and Skip, fully aware of his managerial power over Peter, greedily took the opportunity to get handsy with the pretty-eyed boy, but the now 25-year-old managed. He welcomed repeated, shallow compliments with a kind smile and yielded to Skip's prying hands, desperate to keep his job and shatterproof "Parker Pride."

 

  But Wade Winston Wilson completely eliminated any sense of routine Peter once had.

 

  He'd stumble into "Mud" covered in an array of purple-black bruises, blood running down his chin, and a beat-up duffle-bag at his side in the midst of the summer. Right away, Peter knew who he was, everyone in the coffee shop knew who he was, evident by the curious, lingering stares of cafe-goers and the uncanny tension that fell over the shop as soon as he walked in. He was Wade- _fucking_ -Wilson, otherwise known as Deadpool, a local boxer on a heavily followed winning streak; Apromotional flier inviting the public to his next match sat lazily pinned to the cafe's community board.

 

  Wade saunters over to the counter, expertly ignoring the insistent stares of fellow patrons, and eyeing his worn Reebok's as if they were the most fascinating thing in the world, looking up only to glance at the menu. Peter smiles at the small-scale celebrity cheerily, ready to thank the man for an empty compliment and take his order.

 

   "What can I get for you, sir?" The student asks lightly, gingerly drumming his fingers on the counter in nervous anticipation. _This guy could knock me out in one punch_ , Peter muses to himself, _Maybe un-dilate my eye_ , which was probably true. Wade towers over the boy, even when he's trying to make himself small and inconspicuous, the man is undeniably brawny, all sinewy, tight muscle that is unbearably visible through his ringer tee.

 

   "Flat white. Cherry pie," Wade mumbles, barely looking at Peter as he slaps a twenty on the counter, before rushing over to an empty booth in the back of the cafe. Peter blinks, glancing from the hunched over boxer to the crisp, twenty-dollar bill on the counter, a bit baffled. The student was used to brevity, but even then, had come accustomed to the busiest of people stopping to comment on his eyes. Peter wasn't necessarily offended, just deeply surprised, as childish and shallow of him as it was.

 

  Wade came into "Mud" almost every night after that, each evening covered in a new smattering of abstract cuts and bruises, never seen without his duffle-bag, always ordering a flat white with a cherry pie, and never once commenting on Peter's eyes. The barista would look away and then back at the man, stealing quick, woeful glances at Wade from behind the counter; There were so many things Peter wanted to ask, concern seeping into him as he gazed at the blossoming bruises and crimson blotches on the man's face, arms, and legs. Ultimately, Peter felt it wasn't his place, never asking, trying his best not to trouble himself with it, having enough problems as it was. Plus, bruises and worryingly deep wounds were just a part of boxing, _right?_

 

  Wade finally looks up at the barista nearly three weeks after initially stepping foot in the quaint coffee shop, adorning a faded dad-cap, a large canvas jacket, and his ever-present blemishes. Peter, feeling especially snarky after engaging in a pointless argument over tax, decides to "poke fun" at the incessantly brief boxer, a devilish glint in his dual-colored eyes.

 

  Wade moves his lips to speak as he steps up to the counter, fumbling with his money clip. Before the talented boxer can say anything, Peter quickly remarks, "Lemme guess, flat white and a cherry pie?" already punching the price into the old cash-register with a smirk. Finally, _finally,_ Wade looks up at him with dauntingly dark eyes, an unreadable expression on his oh-so-charming face. He's attractive, Peter would admit that.

 

  After a moment, the man chuckles lowly, the sound syrupy-sweet, deep-set eyes quickly flickering away from Peter's, "Yeah uh, you got it, kid." Gaze returning to his Reebok's, Wade hands the young man a twenty dollar bill, doesn't slap it on the counter, but actually _hands_ it to him. Peter's playful smirk remains unwavering because, in some odd way, this meant progress. Towards what? The boy was unsure.

 

   "You always overpay, y'know?" The barista adds experimentally, testing the waters as he delicately takes the bill, eyes lingering on the man's heavily bandaged knuckles in quiet concern.

 

  _"And?"_

 

It catches the pretty-eyed boy off-guard, having not thought that far ahead, lips opening and closing foolishly, unable to think up some witty remark or sly, tantalizing comment. The boxer hums in something resembling content, before striding over to the far end of the cafe, carelessly throwing his navy duffle onto the boarded floors.

 

  And yet, even after that slightly elongated exchange, still no compliment, or mere mention of Peter's eyes. The boy furrows his brow, a frustrated, confused glare painted across his face, glowering at nothing and no one in particular.

 

  Peter continues to dismally stare off into nothingness as he mentally breaks apart the short-lived conversation, slumped against the coffee-shop counter in a perplexed daze. In the near-month Wade had been dropping in and out of the coffee shop, Peter had come acclimated to the boxer's brevity, never-saying more than four words to the barista before residing to his favored booth. Wade confused the hell out of the student, and while he'd say he had no idea why, Peter actually knew all too well. The barista wouldn't admit it, but he didn't like the lack of attention, in fact, he hated it, the absence disorienting Peter and throwing the pretty-eyed boy off his game. He knew how it sounded - narcissistic, childish, and borderline petty- but his eyes and the compliments that came with had become a fixture in Peter's life; Wade Wilson had unknowingly crumbled the boy's facade of normalcy, ruining everything he had grown used too.

 

  And yeah, maybe he had the tiniest, entirely irrational bit of a crush on the boxer, but could you blame him? He was attractive, a man of mystique, his reserve leaving Peter aching to know more about him; specifically the wine-colored bruises he stumbled in with, about the split knuckles, about the bleeding lips, and so, _so_ much more. Peter knows it's self-indulgent, he knows.

 

  A friendly slap to the boy's shoulder seems to snap him out of his self-loathing thoughts. "Finally had a convo with the guy, huh?" Flash teases lightly, freehand skillfully grabbing a slice of cherry pie from its quaint, little display case. Peter hums languidly, the sound dripping with a barely-there melancholy. 

 

   "I wouldn't call it a conversation," Peter mumbles, because yeah, he was just a tad embarrassed by the whole encounter, now regretting his attempt at bantering with the boxer. And he definitely wasn't still hung up on the whole "eye thing," not at all. (It was really getting to him, _okay?_ ) And yes, he recognizes it's shallow.

 

"Don't beat yourself up Petey," And as if reading his thoughts, the blonde playfully adds, "I think your eyes are gorgeous, mostly 'cause they were my doing." Flash winks at the boy in faux seduction as he plates the pie and starts working on Wade's flat white.

 

   "Gross," Peter groans, running his hands down his face exhaustedly, "I just wish he'd talk to me about more than pie and coffee."

 

   "Why don't you say something?" Flash offers with a grin.

 

   "I just did," Peter mumbles defeatedly, "I choked up." Flash hums in lazy acknowledgment.

 

   "Tell you what," Flash starts, turning to Peter with a finished coffee in hand, "You talk to him and get him to say something 'bout your eyes, and I'll pay half your month's rent." The student narrows his eyes at his co-worker skeptically.

 

   "And if I don't?" He counters easily; Flash always had an ulterior motive; no way he'd willingly give up over 500 dollars just so Peter could get over his hopeless crush and very slight histrionic complex.

 

   "Gotta pose as my boyfriend at Liz and Harry's wedding," Flash says quickly, words running together in a hardly coherent mess. Peter blinks.

 

   "I'm sorry, _what_?"

 

   "Listen, you dated both of them, right? It would be kinda ironic," The blonde chuckles nervously, eyeing Peter cautiously as he apprehensively waits for the boy's next move.

 

   "If you're a sadist, sure," Peter quips, a tired edge to his voice, "Plus, I already promised MJ I'd go with her."Apparently, 500 dollars was worth a good laugh to his co-worker.

 

   "C'mon, for me?" Flash implores, batting his lashes at Peter innocently, "If you don't wanna go with me, don't lose the bet." The student sighs, rubbing at his eyes indolently.

 

   "Sure, Thomspon," Peter mumbles, wanting only to appease the chatter-box of a boy,"Afraid your sadistic tendencies will go unsatisfied."

 

   "Oh, shut up." Flash deadpans, whisking away the cherry pie and steaming flat white, and carrying them over to Wade's booth with a contented smirk.

 

  Wade may not have been kind or sweet or even _pleasant_ to the barista, but goddamn was Peter captivated by him, enthralled by the brusque persona, watching curiously as the man sat sipping on his "artisanally" crafted flat white. But more importantly, he'd win this fucking bet.

 

\--

 

  Peter's apartment complex was interesting, to say in the least.

 

  The tiny, downtown apartment had that of nostalgic charm to it, the poorly-paved, checkerboard tiles in the kitchen and the French, flaking wallpaper decorating the walls of the living room adding character. Peter decided to move off campus, the idea of sharing a bathroom, kitchen, and bedroom no longer appealing to the near 26-year-old; He'd settle on a cramped, slightly outdated apartment if it meant having a safe haven to himself. 

 

  Peter not only relished in the quaint charm and personal bubble the little flat provided but his neighbors' many eccentricities. Their outré and ever-entertaining ways seemed to make up for what the apartment lacked in space, filling it up with their strange personalities and oddball idiosyncrasies.

 

  First, there was Ned Leeds, who lived across the courtyard from the nursing student. On the rare occasion Peter pulled his linen curtains back, he could see Ned nimbly stringing pieces of paper to laundry lines strung across the ceiling of his apartment. Peter had talked to him twice, maybe three times, but from the way the guy spoke and presented himself, it was easy to see that he was some sort of poet, and a depressing one at that. 

 

  Sometimes, Ned would show up at "Mud," scribbling remorseful stanzas into his little, burlap notebook, detailing his flights and failures in the literary world. He'd recite them for the baristas if they let him, one time telling Peter that "failure" was one of his favorite words, before going on some beautifully worded rant about how nonfulfillment is human destiny.The boy felt terrible for him, seeing that loneliness had become a way of life for the dejected writer.

 

  Althea, an elderly, blind woman living across the hall from Peter, took Ned for a stereotypical "lonely poet," and pretentious prick; the lady always had a blunt and often harsh opinion about everyone and everything. 

 

   "It's all a ploy, Peter," Althea had explained, "People love deep, damaged men, think they're sensitive. The more romanticized sadness he spews, the more pity and attention he's getting." Peter thought it was unfair to generalize his feelings like that; She didn't seem to care.

 

  Althea, in her own snarky way, was a wise woman. When she was done playfully scrutinizing Pete, she'd launch into long, telling speeches that could challenge Ned's depressing monologues. She was a little hypocritical, if anything, never taking her own advice or criticisms.Peter loved her though, bringing Al leftover pie's from the coffee shop when he could and often narrating boxing matches for her; the announcers alone couldn't "quite capture the full feel of the sport," according to Al. Peter may not have known how to cook a proper meal, but after many Sundays spent on Althea's dingy couch, he could easily tell you the difference between an uppercut and a right hook. And make a shit ton of Rocky references. He'd become somewhat of an expert.

 

  Al, in four short months, had introduced the nursing student to boxing, cigarettes, the ridiculously violent movie, "Kill Bill," and, most importantly, Wade Wilson.

 

   "He's an overzealous asshole who, apparently, doesn't have the time to talk to starved baristas such as myself," Peter gripes, angrily shoving a hand full of popcorn into his mouth as he watches Wade effortlessly duck under a punch on the fuzzy TV screen. Althea chuckles beside him.

 

   "Attention-starved barista," She quips readily, a small smirk on her aged face, and Peter makes an offended sound, shooting a quick glare at the elderly woman.

 

   "Oh don't be so dramatic, you know it's true Pete," Al says cooly, "He doesn't owe you anything, so don't act like it." The student huffs, turning his attention back to the match.

 

   "A please and thank you would be nice," Peter mumbles, watching as Wade lands a harsh jab to his opponent's nose, "It's just common courtesy." _He wasn't outright rude_ , Peter thought, _Just slightly behind on coffee house etiquette_.

 

   "He could knock you out," Al states simply, "Common courtesy no longer applies."


	2. i must break you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> peter knows too many assholes. 
> 
> tw: descriptions and mention of sexual assault, blood, & vomit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it took me like a month to update ?? im horrible. also this is kinda melodramatic my bad!! :/
> 
> love u lots tehe

  
  Skip had gotten too handsy, too greedy tonight; hands lingering _too_ long, exploring _too_ much, and wandering _too_ far. Peter's not sure how he'd let himself get used to the blonde and his off-putting advances in the first place, because undesired hands at all should be hands enough. But Skip and his blatant rapacity had become yet another fixture in Peter's life; he felt he didn't have the strength, or means, to defend against his manager.

  It shouldn't be normal, Peter knows this, and he's working on it; It was something he was in the process of coping with. Still, Peter had limits, certain boundaries, and tonight Skip had knowingly pushed past all of them, not seeming to care in the slightest about the broke nursing student and his feelings. It was laughable to think Skip was capable of caring. 

   "What, sweetheart?" The blonde had said, gross skeletal fingers dancing along his neck, his other hand dipping into the waistband of Peter's jeans, pinning the petrified student to a set of shelves in the small stock room. He hated that nickname, not once seeing any sense of endearment in the term since "this," whatever it was, had all started. There was nothing even remotely sweet, let alone endearing about Skip Westcott, and Peter wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

  Peter had choked, wanting very badly to scream, but seemingly unable to, having felt like something was stuck in his throat. Peter remembers praying that Flash would burst in, looking for coffee beans or something of the like, and stopping Skip from indulging in his twisted urges any further. He remembers staring at the door in foolish hope, going limp as the older man had his way with him.

  Luckily for Peter, Skip's greedy hands hadn't trailed much further than his waistband, resting awkwardly just below his hip. Peter laughed meekly at the thought of being "lucky." He left the little artisan coffee shop as quickly as he could, not bothering to say goodbye to Flash or any of the regulars he'd grown to love.

  The student sits on the train in a quiet panic now, his breathing ragged, slender legs trembling, pretty eyes damp, painful, hand-shaped bruises decorating his neck, and a single, crowning hickey harshly kissed over the aggressive blemishes. Peter has his head between his knees, curled in on himself; He thinks he's gonna be sick, on the verge of passing out. His skin burns, the feeling of Skip's hands under his waistband branding and blistering the pale expanse, the troubled boy still feeling the fantom of gross fingers on his neck, his thighs, his face. Peter wants to vomit, cry, and scream all at once, but instead, he sits shaking on the curved seats of the train, letting the memory of Skip's touch scald his skin in a devastating silence.

  When the boy gets home, he vomits, right over those poorly-paved kitchen tiles he'd come to cherish.

  With a flushed face, Peter hastily cleans up his regurgitated lunch, not wanting to further erode the checkerboard tiles that he held so dear, the repulsive taste of bile in his mouth. He's shaking as he throws the soiled towel into the sink, the rag soon followed into the basin by his equally ruined polo tee and jeans. The boy stumbles across his apartment in nothing but a plaid pair of boxers, grabbing a left behind pack of cigarettes from his coffee table with a trembling hand. Peter topples into his bathroom, throwing himself onto the toilet in a haze, the cold press of the seat and the weight of the pack in his hand just barely tethering the boy to the moment. Peter's still shaking hands seem to move faster than his troubled mind, grabbing a discarded lighter and quickly lighting up one of what Al liked to call "cancer sticks" without so much as a second thought.

  Peter has asthma, mind you, and as soon as he goes to take a drag from the smoke, it almost immediately results in a violent coughing fit. The cigarette falls from the boy's lips and on to his thigh, burning a perfect little circle into the pale flesh with a nauseating hiss. For a few fleeting seconds, the feeling of Skip's hands no longer seems to sear his skin, the sickening sensation instead replaced by the almost comforting burn of the cigarette. Peter gasps with an aloof discomfort, before hurriedly picking up the still burning smoke, free hand running over the circular wound in bewilderment.

 _At least it's not Skip_ , Peter thinks gravely, _Anything but Skip._

  Peter presses the cigarette into his thigh tentatively, relishing in the fact that _"At least it's not Skip,"_ the five-word phrase running through his mind like a mantra with each distracting hiss and blemish that mars his pale skin. Peter barely notices he's crying, the dull stinging in his dual-colored eyes no comparison to the blistering pain in his thighs as he presses the glowing butt of the cigarette into the soft expanse relentlessly- almost tortuously.

_But at least it's not Skip._

  When Peter's seemingly satisfied, he carefully pulls his boxers off and steps into the shower, letting the cold water soothe the fresh smattering of blisters and racing mind.

  Peter comes into work the next day feeling like one large, pulsing wound, both inside in out. Flash asks if he's okay; Peter brushes him off, promising his co-worker that everything was fine. Skip smirks at him with a look that says "You're mine"; The student spits up a bit of bile.

  
\--

  Skip laid off Peter for a pleasant two weeks, letting the boy's physical and emotional scars scab over. Of course, such sweet bliss had to come to an end at some point (knowing Skip), but Peter relished in his idle hands none the less, instead focused on the beaten boxer in the corner of his coffee shop.

   "He doesn't look too good," Flash mumbles, nodding towards a slumped over Wade Wilson seated in his usual booth, stark red blood pooling around his head on the wooden table like a halo.

   "No shit," Peter mutters, a concerned edge to his tone. He tucks a stray curl into a yellow hair-clip, the cute, little nineties ones you often saw trendy girls sporting in Soho.

  Wade hadn't stopped at the counter upon walking in, instead stumbling over to his preferred seat and haphazardly throwing himself into the booth, barely looking at either of the baristas. There were many nights that the boxer blundered in looking like death himself, and even then had paused to order his bitter coffee and sickly sweet pie. Wade's utter silence was cause for alarm, and before Peter could even think to stop himself, he was striding over to the beaten boxer, a determined look in his eyes.

   "Sir, are you okay?" Peter asks gently, leaning down slightly to survey the collapsed boxer and somewhat shield him from the murmur of the shop. Wade quietly grumbles, lifting his head from the bloodied table at an agonizingly slow pace. He spits out his mouth guard, only adding to the bloody mess, before flashing Peter a dopey smile, white teeth laced with a sickening crimson color. _He probably just got back from a fight_ , Peter muses to himself.

  The student tries not to grimace as he studies Wade's wounded features; There's a cut in his lower lip so deep Peter can see the back of the boxer's mouth, a couple of gashes above either of his brows that definitely needed closure, one brown eye is nearly swollen shut, and his nose is beaten to a near bloody pulp, appearing slightly askew. Peter swallows hard, stepping back from the tarnished booth cautiously.

   "Like what you see?" Wade chortles, lopsided smile wavering.

   "You're bleeding," Peter states merely, half-heartedly motioning from the blood-soaked table to the boxer's beaten face as if to emphasize his point; He was not excited to clean that up.

   "M' always bleeding babe," The boxer slurs, pressing a bandaged hand to his face as if just realizing the array of wine-colored blemishes. The barista sighs. 

   "I'll call an ambulance," Peter manages, hoping Wade ignores the naive blush creeping up his neck and cheeks; the boxer had just called the barista babe like it meant nothing, but to Peter, it obviously held some significance.

   "No, no - no hospitals," Wade quickly objects, waving a dismissive hand at Peter, "Bad for my rep."

   "Bad for your rep?" The student retorts easily, the natural flow of the conversation somewhat daunting him, "Don't be an idiot, you're gonna need stitches." Wade grumbles in a lazy response.

   "Don't be dramatic, jus' sore, that's all," The boxer ripostes in a mocking tone, and Peter scans over his face again, mentally evaluating his injuries.

   "I can fix you up," The student blurts rather rashly, before hurriedly explaining, "Like I-I'm a nurse, or at least I'm soon to be. I'm qualified- almost. And there's a first aid kit in the back, I-"

  Wade shushes the rambling barista with a stifled giggle, saving Peter from embarrassing himself any further. The boxer, with great difficulty, manages to lift himself from his hunched over position, stumbling forward on the hardwood floors.

   "You got icepacks?" Wade asks, reaching for his boxing bag, before grabbing at his side with a hiss of pain. Peter rushes to his aid, picking up the fighter's bag for him and Wade flashes the barista a pained, tight-lipped smile.

   "Yeah, uh-yeah, your ribs okay?"

   "M'fine."

  Peter doesn't pry, carefully escorting Wade to the backroom, and ignoring Flash's knowing gaze. Flicking on the light switch, Peter sets the boxer's bag down and grabs a long-forgotten, flimsy plastic chair from the corner of the tiny supply room, prompting Wade to sit down; The boxer sort of collapses into the poor chair, the plastic squeaking uncomfortably beneath his weight.

  Peter stares at Wade for a moment, because _God_ , he may be beaten bloody but he looks absolutely _gorgeous_ , the boxer's shoulder muscles tensing beneath his white tank with each suppressed tremor of pain, and his curly, blonde hair hanging in his eyes in a way that made the barista's heart swoon.

  Peter clears his throat, snapping himself out of his Wade-induced trance with a shake of his head. The boy leaves the boxer to settle into his chair, beginning his search for the coffee shop's near-ancient first aid kit and it's accompanying emergency bucket. After digging through the many shelves with just an ounce of desperation, Peter finally finds what he's looking for, dropping the dusty bucket and first aid kit at Wade's feet.

   "Gonna get you that ice," Peter states, not offering or asking but simply telling, before running out of the backroom and to Flash's side.

   "I can't do this," Peter murmurs, scooping a couple ice cubes into one of those sanitary gloves Skip occasionally made employees wear.

   "Stop being a baby," Flash sighs as he adds whipped cream to an already sugar-filled beverage. He turns to Peter with an unimpressed look.

   "Go play nurse and maybe flash those pretty eyes of yours at him," Flash encourages, "He'll be swooning in no time." The blonde smiles half-heartedly at Peter before carefully placing the sickly sweet coffee on to a little tray and starting towards a very obviously stressed student, figuratively and literally drowning in paperwork.

  The boy huffs to himself, tying up the ice-filled glove like you would a balloon before starting towards the backroom with newfound confidence.  
  
  Peter worldlessly hands the makeshift ice pack to Wade before kneeling in front of the bloodied boxer and finally popping open the dusty first aid kit. The barista shifts through the little red box with incessantly shaking hands, pulling out a pair of vinyl gloves, some antiseptic wipes, a roll of gauze, along with a pack of trauma dressings.

   "Jus' gonna do a quick body scan, okay?" Peter murmurs with an uncertain smile, holding his hands up to Wade as if to say _"See? I'm not going to hurt you"_. The boxer seems to contemplate this for a moment, staring blankly at Peter's bony hands, and inevitably making the barista more self-conscious by the second.

  Languidly, he hums in agreement, a sweet baritone sound that makes Peter's bottom lip quiver.

   "Just tell me if anything hurts, 'kay?" The boy asks as he pulls on the pair of flimsy, vinyl gloves, trying his best to exude certainty and experience.

   "Gotcha"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading !! lemme know what you think xx
> 
> the new rex orange county song hits hard pls listen 
> 
> \- elaine


	3. lethal combination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which wade struggles and peter sulks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally updated! just a little bit of insight into wade's psyche, and lots of religious imagery (?). 
> 
> tw: intrusive thoughts

  Peter Parker has the eyes of a former dreamer, something Wade realizes rather quickly as the barista kneels in front of the beaten boxer, skillfully dressing the wounds on Wade's chin with copious amounts of antiseptics and gauze.

  The boxer never intended to come back to the dingy, little coffee shop on the corner of 2nd Ave and E 3rd St, nor did he expect to find himself in his current predicament; bleeding all over a good-looking barista with pretty eyes. At first, it had merely been convenient for Wade, the quaint cafe across the street from his new gym (after getting kicked out of his old one under "mysterious" circumstances). "Mud" wasn't that much different from any other artisan coffee shop in Lower Manhattan, proudly displaying the essential wall of carefully selected tchotchkes, a mix-matched assortment of low-hanging Edison lights, a mix of new wave and jazz softly playing through a scare few speakers, and a 20-year-old television playing silent, black and white films on a loop. The place seemed to emanate a soft, near syrupy feeling, wrapping its customers in a warm, thick blanket upon walking in and making them drowsy with a near heavenly sensation of calm and comfort. Wade liked to tell himself he came back for his love of the ambiance and atmosphere. But his returning presence was thanks to none other than a certain bratty-lipped barista and his thin, billowy shirts that should be criminal. The boy was simply too gorgeous, with pooling eyes that Wade wanted to drown himself in as though they were holy water and the boxer was the devil himself, seeking divine retribution. Wade would watch in absolute, near-greedy engrossment as the boy often pinned a single, silken brown curl behind a little, yellow clip. He was just so mesmerizing.

  So here the boxer is, barely holding himself together as said doll-faced barista, with the bratty little lips and the pale, pillowy thighs, is mere inches from Wade's face, delicate hands carefully holding his head in place. It's a mess in every sense of the word.

  Despite the boy's keen attention to gentleness, Wade can't help but wince away from Peter's touch. The barista, at first, is patient, smiling politely as he lets Wade collect himself and resettle. But as he continues to flinch away, the boxer can see the growing agitation on Peter's face, evident by the way his teeth catch on his already chewed-on lips and his brow further furrows.

   "Sorry," Wade finds himself saying, barely a mumble, but the ever attentive barista picks up on it, and the crease between his brow only seems to deepen.

   "No! No- don't apologize," Peter insists, smiling reassuringly, almost apologetically, as he places a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Wade _melts_ , "Just relax, okay? 'S no biggie."

  Wade snickers lowly, and then, as an afterthought, "You lie nice."

  Peter snorts softly in return, gloved hand finding its way back to the nape of his neck, holding his head in place as he pushes a butterfly closure to a gash above the boxer's eye. The boy's eyes flicker from Wade's wound to the floor with an odd sort of uncertainty, and the boxer is once again reminded just how close the two are, Peter practically sat on top of Wade. He tries to ignore it, desperately so.

   "Not a lie- usually I get yelled at. Kind of digging the stoic silence," He answers almost too casually, continuing to tend to the boxer's wounds as if he hadn't just said the most disheartening thing with complete nonchalance. Wade pauses, stares up at a very focused Peter, and then juts out his lower lip.

   "Who yells at you?" Wade tries to dismiss the bubbling, unwarranted anger in his chest, but it's hard to ignore considering the fact that some horrible, _god-awful_ human being was barking at the embodiment of heavenliness.  
It was truly unacceptable in Wade's eyes.

  Its Peter's turn to pause, his movements faltering momentarily, seemingly surprised by the question and the genuine concern in the boxer's tone. He leans back slowly, a quizzical look on his face, before placing a bloodied strip of gauze on the cold, concrete floor next to the small bottle of antiseptic he'd been using.

   "Uh- y'know, mostly just clients," Peter mumbles dismissively, avoiding the boxer's prying eyes, before somewhat awkwardly rubbing his cheek on the sleeve of his faded, violet shirt, "I'm used to it."

  Wade falls quiet for a few shorts moments, watching Peter rifle through the first aid kit in search of clean gauze as he silently plots the demise of anyone who'd dare yell at his cherubic face. But Peter was _used to it_ , the five-word phrase making Wade want to punch something- _someone_. His fist tightens, untightens; He remembers to save it for the ring.

  Peter's talking, but Wade, judgment and sense of care clouded by anger, remains impassive to the comely barista, not bothering to entertain the boy in conversation, instead, the image of blood oozing out the head of a faceless, nameless man muddling his mind; "red, red krovvy" as Alex Delarge would say, and how pretty it was.

  Wade shakes his head. _Welly, welly, welly, welly, welly,_ welly _, well. To what do I owe the extreme pleasure of this surprising visit?_ He asks himself. Intrusive thoughts were a bitch, unholy even; _Forgive me, father, for I have sinned,_ He thinks. He wasn't Catholic, even though Matt desperately wanted him to convert. "Good for PR and the soul," Matt would say.

  Wade looks over to Peter, lips moving; He's talking and pouring some antiseptic onto a rag. The boxer doesn't know what to do, so he sits moderately still.

     Is it better to speak or to die? _It's not that deep,_ He answers himself.

  His split knuckles clench, skin turning an ugly white; the cuts sting. _Save it for the ring_ ; "And all that cal."

  The boxer, so lost in his own, barely strung together thoughts, hardly notices Peter's hand reaching toward him, trying to dab some antiseptic on Wade's busted lip. Caught off guard and feeling threatened, the boxer grabs Peter's wrist, blunt fingernails digging into the boy's smooth skin, that groundless anger foaming over and manifesting itself in sharp movements and blunt, to-the-point words. Peter's breath hitches, lips quivering slightly; Panic.

      _Shit, shit, shit,_ The boxer thinks, _Look what you've done now_. He breathes shallowly.

   "People shouldn't yell at you," Wade says lamely, the pad of his thumb gently swiping over the palm of Peter's hand, almost instinctively.

   "And I should wear seat belts in cabs," Peter bites back defensively, yanking away his arm with a half-hearted glare, "You get used to it, Wade." The barista moves angrily, his once acute attention to gentleness seemingly absent, opting to mimic Wade's harsh, biting movements.

     Is it better to speak or to die? _Speak idiot,_ He answers himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have been super caught up with school, sorry loves. longer chapter soon, i promise

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading !! lemme know what you think


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